Criminal Instincts
by eleven19
Summary: Detective Emma Swan did not sign up for small-town hijinks nor did she sign up for the town's petty thief showing up to every crime scene, bringing her coffee and snarky remarks. Things finally get interesting when an expensive painting is stolen...but they never change.


The street was already littered with flashing lights and squad cars when she pulled up, officers milling around with their 1:00 a.m. coffee. The museum security guards were giving their statements, but judging from the way they all shrugged bemusedly and offered short responses to the follow-up questions, there wasn't any useful information to be had from them.

She exhaled, reluctantly pushing the door open and swinging out; already pulling her I.D. out of her pocket, so that when the uniforms started up with the "Excuse me, ma'm, this is a crime scene" routine, she could dismiss them with a flat, "Detective Swan, coming through."

She jogged up the steps, grimacing as the cold Maine wind tossed her hair. The doors had been propped open, and officers of varying rank were passing in and out, exchanging notes.

"Emma!"

She glanced over briefly, not breaking her stride as her partner caught up to her. "Hey, David," she said, weaving through the doorway. "Whatcha got for me?"

"Not much," he sighed, flipping through his notes. "I'd say we're looking at a grand theft right now."

"What was taken?"

"Painting," he answered with a little shrug. "Pretty expensive, from what I gather. A Jefferson Hatter original."

Emma raised her eyebrows. "Okay…?"

"Jefferson Hatter is an up-and-coming, very well-known in the art community," David explained, tucking his notepad away. "He has limited works, so the ones he _does_ have are extremely valuable."

"Well, that gives us 'motive'," Emma said, drifting to a halt in front of the blank wall. It had been a pretty sizable painting, as she assumed from the size of the empty space; though if it had been as weird and chaotically colored as the others surrounding it, she wasn't entirely sure why the museum would want it displayed so prominently.

"It was the center of a collection he called _Wonderland,"_ David went on. "Inspired by some sort of drug dream, though he referred to it as ' _a transcendence of reality._ '" He smiled sheepishly as Emma rolled her eyes, and scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, I know…"

" _Artists,_ " she muttered impatiently, moving closer to inspect the wall. She'd dated one in the past—a sculptor, not a painter, but same difference, really. August had been _really_ cute…and also, _really_ pretentious and _really_ annoying and _really_ full of himself. Took himself way too seriously, and she didn't care what he said—no one looked at a lump of clay and saw _the soul_ inside it. It was clay: cold, gray, mushy clay. That was it.

She brushed her fingers over the wall, frowning as she considered it for any sign of fingerprints, damages, telltale marks…Nothing. She settled back on her heels with a sigh: not really surprised, but disappointed.

"Go see what we have for security footage," she said to David, not looking away. "Maybe he slipped up, showed his face…"

David made a skeptical noise, but didn't argue with her. All the bases had to be checked, regardless of how unlikely it was that any of those bases had something useful.

And it _was_ unlikely. Emma marveled, almost admiringly, how clean and invisible the theft had been. Most— no matter how professional—left _something:_ a tiny scratch when the object slipped in their slight anxious hands, a little dirt from their shoes…Getting past exhausted security guards was one thing, but this was like the thief had whisked it away with magic.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Emma closed her eyes, gritting her teeth at the familiar smoky voice. "What are you doing here?"

"I think the question should be, 'what are you doing here _so late?_ '" He emerged from the shadowed corner with his usual crooked grin, propping himself up deliberately against the empty wall. "You know I would never forget date night."

"Cassidy, get out of here, I'm working!"

"You're _always_ working," he exhaled. "Work, work, work—what about _us?_ "

Emma looked at the ceiling, sending up the same prayer she sent whenever Cassidy showed up to one of her crime scenes. _God…whatever I did to deserve this…please. I'm sorry._

Neal Cassidy was Storybooke's curse: a petty thief, too clever to get caught on legal technicalities, and too proud not to brag about it. He had too many tricks, too many shadowed accomplices, too many alibis with all his shady jobs that he changed every week…If he hadn't been so annoying, she might have been impressed.

He was as much a part of the town as the old clock tower or Granny's diner. Everyone knew him, and he knew everybody—even the shop owners he ripped off seemed to hold an exasperated sort of affection for him. Granny Lucas called him "a charming scoundrel"; Emma called him "a major pain in my ass".

The first time she'd met him, she'd been on a patrol with David, familiarizing herself with the town at night. David—who'd grown up in Storybrooke, practically across the street from Cassidy—had nearly driven by him, but Emma had insisted he pull over to investigate the shadowy figure.

"It's no one," David had tried to tell her, but Emma—young and foolish as she was—refused to give in.

Cassidy's initial surprise had quickly turned to amusement, and before she knew it, he was countering her, "Why are you walking around by yourself at this hour?" with a smirk and, "You're right—you should join me." Since then, he'd expended a special effort to bump into her when she was on the clock, flirting with her to waste her time. Five years later, the "joke" had grown from "flirting" to "dating" to "relationship that's lost its spark, we need to recapture the magic".

And sadly, it was the longest relationship she'd ever held down.

"You can't be here," Emma said, narrowing her eyes at him. "This is a crime scene."

"I know," he shrugged. "I heard one of Jefferson Hatter's paintings were stolen, I had to see it."

"How did _you_ hear about that?" She'd only heard about it an hour ago, and she was the lead detective on the case. "Was it you?"

"Me?" Cassidy let out a surprised laugh. "I'm flattered you think I could pull something like this off, but no—not this time."

He straightened up with a sigh, clasping his hands behind his back as he strolled around the empty space, considering it. "I'll tell you one thing, though," he mused. "You're dealing with a pro."

"I _know_ that."

"I mean, this is his speciality," Cassidy went on, as if she hadn't spoken. "He's an art thief, by trade." He brushed the wall with the tips of his fingers. "Most guys I know think the museum just use a nail and a hammer to hang these up, they don't know about temperature sensors and shit." He lowered his hand, frowning slightly. "But art thieves are attracted to the big cities, like Paris or New York…How the hell did one of them wind up in Storybrooke?"

"You seem to know a lot about it," Emma said, raising a suspicious eyebrow. "You sure this wasn't you?"

"Nah, it's too expensive." Cassidy glanced at her over his shoulder, and winked. "Not really my style."

"Well, if you're not here to gloat, then why are you here?" Emma asked witheringly. "You've seen it—you can leave."

"I can't leave _yet_ ," he said, holding up a finger. "I brought you something."

Emma stared as he quickly retreated back to the corner, reemerging with two coffees in a carrier and an ear-splitting grin.

"Brought you some coffee," he said, handing her a cup. "Don't worry—I brought it."

Emma looked disbelievingly at the cup in her hand, and slowly raised her eyes. Cassidy raised his eyebrows, swallowing the sip he'd just taken, and gestured at her.

"Black, two sugars—right?"

She stared at him.

"I heard you ordering in the diner a few days ago," he explained. "I wasn't being creepy, your voice just kinda carries."

Was he for real? Was this guy actually real? Showing up to a grand theft crime scene with coffee and sass, like it was just another Thursday night?

Cassidy snapped his fingers in her face. "Wake up, Detective."

"I _am_ awake," she said, recovering her voice. "Look, you gotta get out of here, I'm serious."

"Why?"

"Because this is a crime scene!" she said exasperatedly. "You're not allowed here! So help me God, Cassidy—if you're not gone in ten seconds, I'm cuffing you!"

"There's a joke to be made there, but I'm above that." Cassidy downed another sip, already moving past her. "I'll bring you a bagel next time, okay?"

"No! Not okay!"

"Chocolate chip."

"Cassidy—"

"Night-night, Detective."

Emma covered her hand over her eyes as he slipped out of the room, shaking her head. He was _infuriating._ Not only had he set her temper off, with all his little quips and smirks, but he had broken her concentration on what was so far the biggest case of her career! And to top it all off, he had brought her _coffee,_ which made it difficult to be completely angry with him, because she actually really needed a cup of coffee right now.

She turned back to the empty wall with a glower, reluctantly taking a sip of her black-with-two-sugars (trying to ignore the latent amusement that he'd gotten her order right). Cassidy's appraisal of the scene still rang in her head. _This is his speciality…art thief, by trade…attracted to big cities…_

Emma frowned, annoyed by the fact that Cassidy had managed to build a profile in less than a minute. That was _her_ job, not his.

Then again…Cassidy was a thief. This was _his_ world, not hers.

She glanced over her shoulder, even though he was long gone at this point; she took a thoughtful sip of coffee, and slowly turned back to her empty wall, thinking.

Maybe she could pick his brain when he showed up with her chocolate chip bagel.


End file.
